


Whiskey Dreams

by Lhyrre



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Drugs, F/M, One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lhyrre/pseuds/Lhyrre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A.U. Mr. Gold is drowning his sorrows in whiskey after a failed encounter with his son when his former sober companion, Belle, shows up black and blue on his doorstep. OR: The one where Rumple is a recovering drug addict. Oneshot. </p>
<p>Written for the Tumblr prompt: Belle and Mr. Gold have been friends for over a year, but when Belle breaks up with her long time boyfriend, and goes to him for help, Gold admits he has feelings for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey Dreams

If the day could have been worse, it would have surprised Mr. Gold. He drained back half of the crystal tumbler, morosely squinting at the amber liquid in the dim light of his living room. As if dealing with that thrice-blasted lawyer, Regina, hadn’t been enough for one day, Bae had turned down his call. Again.

He took another sip of whiskey, this time letting it burn in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. Weeks of rehab, hiring a sober companion for three months – wasn’t that enough to show Bae that he’d changed? That he wanted to change? Gold gripped the handle of his cane and took himself over to the small bar, where he poured himself another half-glass and drained another sip.

Belle would be disappointed, he thought as the alcohol began to touch upon his thought process. But it wasn’t like she was here to complain anyway. She’d served her goddamn time and left, just like everyone else. 

He poured another.

Belle would be a bad train of thought, he growled, not sure if he was thinking or speaking at this point. He could still remember when he’d first met her, in that shocking golden sundress. He’d been desperate, just out of rehab and in need of a sober companion that he could… silence. It would do no good if the media got ahold of the fact that the infamous Mr. Gold wasn’t able to walk from the bedroom to the kitchen without craving cocaine.

It had been simple enough. Maurice French had owed him a large sum of money, which he offered to… forget if his daughter became his sober companion for three months. French had said something to the effect of never allowing his cat go into Gold’s service, but Belle had over-ridden her father’s decision and come home with him that night.

Gold clumped back to the couch, settling back with a deep sigh. Closing his eyes, he could almost hear the musical lilt of her voice telling him to let more light in the house, to stop working so much…. He jerked himself out of the reverie, and glared at the glass on the table. “Your fault,” he said quietly, feeling a little foolish. He’d chased her away in the end, like he had a thousand times before.

_Six Months Earlier_

“Mr. Gold, how have you been!” Belle said warmly, wrapping her hands around the teacup. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much, but the library hired me and they’re rather understaffed…” she trailed off at Gold’s stiff expression. “Are you alright?” she asked, concerned.

“I’m fine, Belle,” he said, smiling at her distantly. “I’ve got a difficult client today, Regina Mills. Wants me to do something about the birth mother of her son that turned up the other day… with the runaway.” He sighed. “But enough about me.” The smile that touched his face was closer now, and he stopped looking through her. “Other than that, I’m fine. You, Belle, how are you? And… what’s that boy’s name…”

Belle laughed a little into her tea, even though her hands visibly tightened around the mug. “Gaston. You know perfectly well, Mr. Gold.” 

Gold’s lip wrinkled in distaste. “Ah. Yes,” he said. “How is he?”

Belle shrugged. “Well, he’s been busy with work…” she said evasively, her glance sliding anywhere but Gold’s face. “But I’m fine! I’ve been busy too, with the new library job and helping my dad out at the shop…” Her wide blue eyes focused on his face.

Gold raised an eyebrow and began to ask another question before Belle cut him off. “Have you called your son? Bae?” she asked, setting the cup down on the saucer. She motioned for the waitress to bring more earl grey before continuing. “I’m sure he’d love to hear from you,” she tacked on at Gold’s sudden stiffness.

“No,” he lied, accepting the tea from the waitress. The cast-iron pot was warm and heavy against his hands, a fortress against questions. “I was going to wait until I was clean for longer than a few months before I called him.” He poured both of them more tea, focusing on the pouring so his hands wouldn’t betray him.

Belle frowned, stirring cream and sugar into her tea. “You shouldn’t wait, Rum,” she said quietly. “You don’t know what happens tomorrow.” 

Gold froze as she used the nickname that he’d acquired on the second day of her arrival. (He’d told her that his name was Rupert, and, after one look at the disorder of his house she’d joked that Rumple suited him better.) “You do keep saying that, dearie,” he said calmly.

Belle lifted an eyebrow. “Since the first day we met,” she said with a chuckle. “You hired me to say it, I believe.”

“Do keep saying that like it was a legal arrangement, dearie,” he snarked with a bitter smile. “It makes an old monster feel better about blackmail.” Gold took a triumphant sip of his tea, the chip of his favorite cup barely catching on the edge of his lip.

Belle rolled her eyes. “You’re no monster, Mr. Gold,” she said. “I’ve never seen you take your tea with the blood of virgins, whatever you say.”

Gold smiled back halfheartedly, his earlier conversation with his son still echoing in his mind. He'd called Belle here after the encounter, so he would have a reason to look back on this day fondly.

_“You don’t get it!” Bae hissed. “It wasn’t just the drugs,_ Papa. _The way you manipulate and hurt people to get your way – that’s what makes you a monster!”_

Gold flinched at the memory.

“Mr. Gold?” Belle’s voice drew him back to reality. “Are you sure you’re alright?” Her alarm startled him, evident in the creases in her forehead.

“Just fine, dearie,” he reassured her. “I was imagining Regina’s face when I am forced to tell her that I can’t very well blackmail a woman who has nothing to lose. It’s a matter of definitions.”

Belle giggled at that, and Gold wondered again how she even understood his jokes. His eyes lingered on her smile, on her hair, and wondered how long it would be before he saw her again. It had been nearly a month this time, but he truly had to wean himself off of her. Depending on anyone was dangerous. He pushed back his chair and checked his watch. “On that note, Belle, I must run off to visit the evil queen. Unless you would like me to walk you to your car?” he offered. He half-hoped she would turn him down, that that magnetic draw wouldn’t be on him any longer. 

The sooner he got rid of her, the better. She took his offer, though, and as she stepped into her car, he caught a glimpse of a purpling bruise on her thigh, just beneath the hem of her dress. “What happened to your leg, Belle?” he asked, taking some pressure off his bad leg by leaning against her car.

She half-stiffened for a moment, then smiled. “I fell off a ladder at the library,” she said with a quiet roll of her eyes. “Except I didn’t have anyone to catch me this time!” she said with a laugh. “See you later, Mr. Gold!” she said, suddenly in a hurry to close the door. “I forgot, I have to meet Gaston at work.” She closed the door, almost on his fingers, and waved at him before pulling out and away from the tea shop. Gold watched her drive away until he couldn’t distinguish the blue of her car from the traffic. Perhaps if he stayed away long enough, this curious – dangerous – pull on his heart would lessen…

_Present_

He was a fool. Bae was gone, Milah was gone, Belle was gone… Because of him. He chased them away, every time. He hadn’t seen Belle since their last parting six months ago, and still she lingered there with her scolds and laughter. What had he done to chase her away? He hadn’t tried, not actively… He saw her fingerprints everywhere he looked – the ripped curtains, the organized pantry, that stupid chipped teacup. Was he too insistent? Had he offended her somehow?

His friend. His Belle. His… he shut down that thought before it drove another stake through his heart, and craved a hit for the first time in months. A bitter laugh escaped when he realized that Belle had thrown it all away, months ago. Even the absence of cocaine was doomed to remind him of Belle, like a nagging pit at the edge of his mind.

The first time the doorbell rung, he didn’t hear it, taking another quaff of whiskey. (Such a dull substitute for cocaine, but sacrifices had to be made.) 

The second time he glared balefully at the door and hauled himself to his feet. If it was Regina again, he was going to slam it in her face and –

When he pulled the door open, Belle’s eyes caught his, and there was a shatter of glass on the terrazza floor, catching a thousand pinpricks of light as they flew.

“Belle?” he said incredulously, standing stock-still in the door for a moment. Was this a dream? He hadn’t had _that_ much whiskey, he thought. A lot for a normal person, he supposed, but he was Scottish. There were benefits to that.

Belle blinked at him. “Rum,” she said, tears in her voice. “Rumple…” 

And suddenly he _saw_ her, purple bruises and eyes reddened from crying. “Belle, are you alright?” he whispered, opening the door and picking up a hand to draw her over the doorstep. “It’s alright, you’re safe here,” he said awkwardly as glass crunched beneath her rain-boots. His eyes darkened as he took in her bruises. “Who did this to you?” he said, struggling to keep his voice gentle, not to scare her away again as he drew her down onto the couch and watched her struggle with tears.

“I left Gaston,” she whispered, attempting to slough off her rainboots. Her legs shook, though, and failed in the endeavor. 

Without a word, Gold went down on his good knee and took off the boots, tossing them over to the remains of his whiskey glass by the door. He’d clean that up later. 

“Gaston did this to you?” he hissed, failing in his effort to keep his voice gentle. 

Still trembling, she nodded. 

Gold paused, and pulled himself (ow, knee,) onto the couch next to her. His own hands were shaking in fury as he gingerly wrapped an arm about her waist, attempting to avoid any obvious bruises.

She winced anyway, and burst into tears.

Gold froze. What had he done wrong? “Belle, Belle,” he whispered, pulling out a handkerchief and awkwardly dabbing at her cheek. She winced as he brushed at her swollen eye and wept afresh, clinging to him as if he were a life-vest. “Shhh,” he whispered, gently rubbing her back. “You’re, ah, safe here,” he said quietly, still not sure if he had caused her sobs.

In record time, though, she was wiping away her tears. “I’m…” she paused, and took a long breath. “I’m so sorry Mr. Gold, I just…” she looked up at him with guilt in her eyes. “I didn’t know where else to go.” 

Gold wanted nothing more than to banish that look. “You’re always welcome here,” he said with surprising tenderness. He handed her the handkerchief. “I just was unsure of why you’d come here first, and not your father’s house.” His own voice shook a little on the last bit, his customary decorum swept away in the violence of her emotion.

He thought she would break into tears again, but she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and collected herself – brave Belle. She’d always been brave. “I tried to tell Dad,” she said softly. “Several times.” A half-sob escaped, but she collected herself and forced herself to look Gold in the eye. “He didn’t believe me.” She pressed her lips together, closing her eyes. “I… I thought you would.” She had to stop speaking, then, as she looked fit to overflow again.

“Of course I believe you,” Gold said quietly. “How many pieces do you want him in by sunrise?” he asked, only half-joking.

Belle managed a watery smile. “From you, Rum, that sounded almost like a proclamation of love.”

Taking her in for a moment, he smiled. “Yes, dearie,” he murmured, leaning over to touch his lips to her forehead. “Almost.”

And perhaps it was.


End file.
